Circling Fate
by articfoxarticfox
Summary: Elizabeth will be the death of him, but he thinks perhaps he is already condemned. Four part fic, going from pre-CotBP through to AWE, through the eyes of James Norrington.
1. Chapter 1

**Part One**

The Governor's daughter would be the death of him.

Already he had spied her below decks, examining the cargo, fingering the gunpowder kegs with soft lady-like hands. Her skirts were so wide that she had to bunch them up to fit into the smaller gaps further down by the cannons.

If her father knew she was down here, he would surely not be impressed. But James won't be the one to tell him.

"Miss Swann?"

The child turns to him, ringlets bouncing.

"Lieutenant! James!" she exclaims, her eyes lighting up at the sight of him.

"You should not be below decks unaccompanied, Miss Swann. Really you should not be below decks at all. It is not safe for a lady."

He hesitates to call her 'lady', because although she is, no doubt, of the highest breeding and class, swathed in silk and ribbons, she is still only a child. And one in possession of an undeniably unhealthy curiosity for everything she should not be curious about.

She says nothing, but her crestfallen mouth speaks volumes. She glides past him and heads above deck, her layers of skirts rustling with her small steps. He has the feeling she wishes him to know that she disapproves of this infringement of her freedom; unimpressed that it was he, of all men, who issued such a mandate.

James breathes a sigh of relief when they are both above deck, their absence not noted, and their re-emergence even less so. He straightens his coat, and pulls at his cuffs, trying to assemble some sort of outer calm from his inner restlessness.

He knows tomorrow he will find her in the hold again. Or like last week, investigating the brig, with her silk slippers stained and soaked through.

Already he realises that she has marked him out from the other sailors, although he does not know why. She is a charming young thing, quick-witted and smart, a persistent curiosity; a small shadow at his back. She is nothing like him; coiled and tightly bound under stretches of brocade, and a head full of protocol.

She will be the sort of woman, he knows already, for whom cities will crumble, worlds will end, and men will fight and die for. James is almost fearful of it, when he looks in her inquisitive brown eyes. If fate has its way, she is the rock on which a thousand ships will shatter.

"You will lend me those stories tomorrow, won't you, Lieutenant?"

Her whispered question breaks him out of his thoughts, as he notices she has crept, silent as a cat, up by his side.

"Your father would not approve, Miss Swann." He keeps his gaze out to sea, hands firmly behind his back.

The young Elizabeth glances up at him, her smile soft, but the challenge in her eyes.

"Well, I won't be the one to tell him, Lieutenant."

--

Miss Swann will be the death of him.

The Governor has lost her again. It seems to James that lately the Royal Navy's sole task in this town has been to locate the girl at times like these. At fifteen she should know better, but she resists where she can the strings of propriety tightening around her freedom.

The news never distresses James, as it does the Governor, because he always knows where to look. It is simply exasperating that somehow it falls to him, and not her father. It is he who must try and contain her, even though he knows she longs to be out of her cage.

Not far from the docks, where the land curves away, he always finds her on the beach; a small lone figure on the stretches of dirty white sand.

Even before he speaks she turns to him, as if sensing his presence. Sometimes he sits beside her, but today he doesn't. Instead he stands to attention and stares across the ocean.

"It looks so far," she says, picking up a handful of sand and releasing it slowly through her fingers. "The horizon."

He wants to tell her that it is - that every time you think you can reach out and touch it, it slips from your grasp, and all you can do is watch. The horizon is infinite, but it will never stop men from trying to conquer it, claim it, even though it is not theirs in the first place.

"I wish I could sail," she murmurs, the ribbons in her hair fluttering against the sea breeze, pulling tendrils of hair with them. "If I should choose to do anything, it would be to roam the sea and have adventures." She glances up to seek his approval, but immediately she realises she is confiding in the wrong person.

"The sea is not an adventure, Miss Swann. Particularly of all for a young woman." He does not wish to be harsh, but knows her father fears this kind of talk from her. James cannot help but feel partially responsible, for all those times he has let her into his office to gaze over his charts, or for all the small bound books of sailors stories that he lent her over the years.

"It is beautiful, yes, but wild; unpredictable." James ignores the lump forming in his throat, and furrows his brow.

"Miss Swann, I have lost too many good men to an ocean grave. Strong, brave men who loved the sea. She does not distinguish between the good and the bad, those who love her, and those who don't. All there is, is the lucky and the unlucky."

She turns her face to him, squinting against the sunlight.

"And which are you, Captain?"

"Lucky - so far."

A frown settles between her eyes, and she opens her mouth to speak, but the words seem stuck in her throat.

--

Miss Elizabeth Swann will be the death of him.

For her sixteenth birthday, she wore pale blue silk, trimmed with white ribbons, and he realises it is the first time he has ever seen her dance. She is as graceful as he had imagined, as if she was born knowing the steps that James has taken so long to learn.

He wonders when this sudden transformation had taken place; this swift progression from girl to woman, from bud to vibrant flower in full bloom. He cannot recall the same swell of her hips the last time he saw her, but admittedly he has been away with the _Dauntless_ for some time. It seems she is no longer the roving child on the surface, but the fire in her eyes tells a different story.

James should ask her to dance, and he knows she is waiting for him. Sidelong glances and coy smiles are hints enough, but his feet and tongue are tangled. It is her that finally approaches.

"I saved the minuet for you," she says, her hand curling around his arm, fingers pale against the dark navy of his coat.

"Why the minuet?"

"Because I have seen your gavotte, James, and frankly, it is ridiculous."

His mouth curls up in a smile, despite himself. There may be more finery and ribbons now, but she still dreams the dreams of the free.

Elizabeth Swann will be the death of him, he knows, and sinks his head further into his hands.

James cannot even pinpoint the moment when everything changed, or even the time when his priorities reshuffled without his knowledge or permission. He tries to think back, to find a cause and effect for this situation, but thinks of her, and berates himself for it.

He does not know when he came to love her, only that he does. Even so, knowing when would change nothing, for it will not help him solve what haunts him. She is the colour in his world of grey (for his world does seem hopelessly grey now, compared to her), and he cannot help but turn his head in her direction.

James thinks perhaps she senses this change in him, as much as he has tried to hide it. All his thoughts of her are inked so indelibly on his mind, that he fears that they have etched themselves of his face too.

He is coming apart, and is powerless to stop it.

So he throws himself into his work. The _Dauntless_ needs a Captain, but his heart is not in it. He does his duty with vigour, but dreams of future days when he could perhaps come home to her.

The Governor is less than subtle of his expectations, and hints heavily to him that perhaps this time is drawing near. The thought makes James feel sick to the stomach, and so he makes excuses. He cannot support a family yet. He would wish to provide for her better. He knows Governor Swann cannot argue these points; he also only wants what is best for Elizabeth.

It is not that James does not want to marry her. He does, most desperately. But in the same way, he does not want to disappoint her. As much torture as it is; loving Elizabeth as he does, he fears it is an even more dangerous thing to love her too much.

After all, this is Elizabeth Swann, and James is just one of many to her.

--

Elizabeth will be the death of him, but he thinks perhaps he is already condemned.

One Tuesday, not long after her nineteenth birthday, she invites him to circle the orange groves with her, and to his own great surprise, James accepts.

"I cannot reach the ripe fruit on the higher branches," she tells him as she leads him through the garden. The air is heavy. A storm is coming; James can smell it on the air.

They walk on in silence for a few minutes. James is acutely aware of her hand on his arm; the way that he adjusts his large stride to match her shorter one.

When they reach the fruit, he diligently picks each one for her. She selects only the roundest, most vibrant of them, placing each one he hands her carefully in the basket at her feet. Sometimes their hands touch, and his skin burns hotter than the worst of Caribbean days.

There is one particular orange that she spies, but he cannot reach for her.

"Use your sword," she prompts. Her eyes glint in the sunlight when he does, and it falls directly into her cupped hands. Her mouth curves into an amused smile, eyebrow raised at him, and all he can think to do is smile tightly back. Anything more and he would endanger himself, even with his heart already lost.

Satisfied, she sits under the tree, and starts peeling one of the fruit with her bare hands. Her fingernails dig in under the skin, tugging away the outer surface with steady movements. He observes her silently.

When she is done, she splits the orange in two, and offers him half. James takes it gingerly, running the soft flesh under his fingertips, but does not eat.

He watches her out the corner of his eye; unwilling to let her know that he is studying her. She has grown so much, and yet not at all in the years that he has known her. She is still the sun in his world, and he cannot help but try and get closer; garner a little piece of her warmth to covet as his own.

She makes his heart ache; ache with need and desire and lust and everything else that he had been trying to ignore. These feelings hang on his heart, and drag it down harder and deeper until there is nowhere further to go, and he is lost for her. He has become accustomed to associating these feelings, with her; the steady dull ache of wanting something he fears to possess, or to claim. He cannot decide if it is better to live in this limbo; to live in hope, rather than to sink like a stone at her feet. James tries to decide how this small creature has managed to bring a Captain of the Royal Navy to his knees, but he cannot articulate it; cannot put into words this power she wields over him. This feeling that keeps him suspended from life, as if he is unwilling to progress without her there beside him.

She controls him absolutely; totally; unquestionably. The thought of her lips sends him to stutters. The thought of her lips pressed against his (in his weaker moments) undoes him altogether.

Undone.

He is a piece of string, and she will unravel him time and time again.

"Thank you, Captain." She pouts a little with the words, lips stained with juice, plump and luscious. His throat catches, almost closes over.

"You are welcome, Miss Swann."

"Do you not enjoy oranges?" She motions to the fruit uneaten, resting in his palm.

"I... I'm not hungry." It is true; he is not. No food can sate the real hunger he feels.

"Not even for oranges?" Elizabeth loves oranges more than any other food, he knows.

"Not even for oranges, Miss Swann. But thank you." He offers her his untouched half, which she takes with a smile. The clouds are drawing nearer, ominous and grey, the remaining patches of sky are streaked blood red with the sun. "Shall we head back to the house?" he asks, offering his arm.

They are not even out of the groves when the skies open up, and the rain tumbles down. It is hard and strong, drenching them both in seconds. They shelter under a tree, out of breath and wet through.

Some of her hair has fallen out of her pins, and rivulets of water streak their way down her face and neck, but James does not think he has ever seen Elizabeth look as wonderful as she does in that moment.

"Oh! My dress!" she scowls, glancing down at the mud caked hem. "It's ruined! I must look a fright."

"I... I think you look beautiful."

The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, and he can feel the blush rising in his cheeks, even under the cool curtain of rain. James looks up, a stilted apology on the tip of his tongue; ready to plea for forgiveness for his boldness, until he sees she is not offended, nor even laughing at him. Perhaps he expected something else: pity, maybe, for the poor tongue-tied Captain who sets his sights on an unobtainable horizon. _That_ would be a reaction he would have expected, but there is not even a hint of this on her face. No, it is something entirely different.

"Elizabeth," he murmurs, savouring her name on his tongue.

Her eyes are wide, full of intrigue, and he considers kissing her, but doesn't.

Instead she kisses him. She tastes like oranges, and rain, and her lips are soft whispers against his. He wants her, wants this; and it takes him everything in his power not to press her up against the trunk of the tree, and kiss her harder, show her everything that he cannot say. His heart beats a rapid rhythm in his chest, and he is so acutely aware of how close she is, how small she is, compared to him. The floodgates have opened, and there is no turning back.

Elizabeth pulls away suddenly, shocked, perhaps with him as much as herself. Her expression is unreadable but steady; almost examining him, but she does not break from his gaze.

"James." A quick curtsey and she is gone, skirts flying as she takes off through the rain towards the house. He stands motionless, frozen, watching her retreating back, wondering if this will be enough for him, but knowing it will not.

By the time the sun has come out again, his mind is made up. He will ask her to marry him when he is made Commodore.

He thought he would have more time, in order to win Elizabeth. But the letter of promotion arrives three weeks later.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two**

Elizabeth will be the death of him, but first he must learn to live.

The promotion ceremony is a blur of red coats and glinting steel; the Caribbean sun is hotter than hell, and James thinks such a place might be a welcome alternative.

There are congratulations and handshakes; he is proud, but tired and weary, knowing still that the hardest part is yet to come. She is resplendent in the finest silk and acts as elegant as any of the other ladies, even though underneath he knows she is wild as a tempest. His tongue is dry, and sticks to the roof of his mouth when he asks her for a moment in private.

James escorts her to the ramparts where the ocean stretches out forever, and the water's surface glistens like thousands of polished diamonds. His nerves are strained - stretched so tight he fears they might break. He wants to delay a little longer, even just a day, but he promised himself and there has never been a promise James Norrington has not kept. She is golden, and breathless, and so is he, so they match to perfection.

His heart is in his mouth when he proposes to her, not elegant and collected as he'd practised. His words are stammered, voice trembling, but his heart is open and that is what matters.

Then she falls, and his world falls with her.

--

He does not receive an answer from her that day, and by the time they have caught up with Jack Sparrow (James refuses to refer to him as a _Captain_) and incarcerated him, the sun is deep in the sky. He knows it will seem overly persistent of him to call upon her in the morning, even though he desperately wants to. James knows Elizabeth well enough to not back her into a corner, or hurry her. She is a bird, like her name suggests, and she should not be crushed by eager hands.

Many young ladies would have taken to their beds for days after such an encounter as Elizabeth had been subjected to that morning, but James knows her better than that. The look in her wide eyes that he saw was not fear, but fascination, and he knows she will dream of darker features tonight.

James sits at his office desk, weary, but knows he will be unable to sleep. Instead, he stares out the window, counting the hours until he can go on watch. The air is heavy and humid; ominous even. There is an unnatural breeze moving off the sea, and for the first time in all his years in the Caribbean, James suppresses a shiver.

He wonders in these moments, what could have happened if he had jumped after her; thrown himself at the mercy of the rocks and the water. Overly tight stays may have caused her descent, but the truth is, James fell a long time ago.

--

Just as she had fallen, James' world falls apart.

Port Royal is attacked by pirates, and Elizabeth is taken. If this wasn't enough for him, William Turner frees Jack Sparrow and together they commandeer the _Interceptor_, the pride of the British navy.

All this - under his watch.

James is well aware that Turner's purpose is to rescue Elizabeth, and while he admires the boy's determination, he pities his foolishness. The blacksmith has well proven his rashness and his devotion to Miss Swann, and although this development worries James, it is not the time to dwell on it.

Perhaps he should care more about the loss of the ship, or the fact that these events are a devastating blow to his new reputation as Commodore. But in truth it is her he worries about, and prays for, and thinks of. He cannot sleep, and will not sleep until it is all done with and she is out of harm's way.

He will not rest again until she is safe.

--

They find her and Sparrow on a small strip of land; a large (rum-fuelled) smoke cloud having drawn James' attention on the horizon.

He almost cannot look when he sees she is attired only in the barest of garments, hair flowing and face rosy from the hours in the sun. His hands shake as he offers her assistance from the longboat, and it is reassurance enough to know she is real and _there_, and not just some figment of his imagination. He wants to embrace her, kiss her, show her the full extent of his worry and relief that she is safe and unharmed. But he can't, and he won't, but the need is inside him nevertheless.

And then she utters those words; those words that stop his heart, even though he tries not to show it. She offers him everything he has ever desired, and yet somehow it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. It is a trade off really; her hand in marriage for the navy to go after Turner, but she is laying herself at his feet, and James, despite the façade he builds, is only a man, after all.

He is not fool enough to think that she accepts his proposal without conditions, even though she states that his answer would not change hers. He has determinedly ignored her attentions to the blacksmith as petty infatuation; mere intrigue, and hopes that perhaps that what she feels is guilt for his fate. But deep inside, he knows it is not.

She knows that James can refuse her nothing, and she is right.

Elizabeth is sweet, and smiles prettily, and his heart swells with pride to think that she will truly be his wife. He wants to kiss her, properly, right there on the deck, but remembers his position, and what is expected of him. He is a gentleman; a man of honour, and it will not do to behave any less than one. She deserves only the best, and he will spend the rest of their lives living up to her.

--

It was inevitable in hindsight.

He lets her go, and it almost kills him, but he cannot bind her to him even in desperation. She loves Turner; has made it abundantly clear, and if that is what she wants, he cannot deny her. He does not know when his happiness became subordinate to her own, but it was probably always that way and he never knew. James wonders how doing the right thing can hurt so much.

Perhaps he is doomed to blindness, but James was always blind where Elizabeth was concerned. She knows she is breaking his heart and he can see the sincere regret in her eyes, even as she speaks those fateful words. He wants to stop his heart beating; stop it breaking, but he is stoic and proper and does not want the world to see what he is feeling on the inside. He wishes them the best of luck, for what else can he do? He is a gentleman, and will prove it even if it kills him.

There is nothing else for him now. Elizabeth will stand beside Turner for the rest of her days, and James will stand alone.

--

There is little more for him to do but chase after Sparrow, for James cannot bear to be around to watch Elizabeth marry another man. There are things a man can do, and things a man can't do, and James knows his limits better than most.

The thought makes him sick to his stomach; a rolling unease that he cannot subdue; cannot imagine it ever resting. For the remainder of his days he must hold onto the thought of what might have been, what _could_ have been if their fates had joined, instead of circling each other in a furious, frustrating dance. The steps are sideways, and not together, and he knows that is the way it will always be.

His attention must be focused elsewhere, and where better than the capture of a man who has plagued the seas? His heart is not in it but he suspects his heart is no longer capable of what it used to be. It was once full of hope, of power, of love, and now it is empty, drained, exhausted. James goes through the motions of living life, but is as dead as any pirate, cursed with Aztec gold.

Sparrow is not an easy bird to follow, but Commodore James Norrington will not rest. He must follow the law, for that is who he is and all he knows. It is the stable foundations of his life, even when the rest has crumbled to the ground. Sparrow has become the scapegoat for all his frustrations, and James blames the pirate even if he cannot hate him.

Sometimes (no, all the time), James wishes he could be the man he portrays himself to be: cold, and unfeeling, determined, and brave. It would be easier if he were to feel nothing, than to feel the heartache and sickness he experiences now. So he pretends: pretends that he is bold and impassive - emotionless. But he is none of those things. If still waters run deep, James is an ocean.

--

He does not predict the hurricane, so when he sees it, it is far too late. One can outrun a ship's cannons, but the weather is another thing, and the _Dauntless_ is shattered.

James feels himself sinking, his body heavy; falling and falling. His coat weighs him down in arms and legs, mind and soul. He does not care, cannot even start to care. For even now, what does he have to live for but duty and honour? And even they will not keep him warm at night. They do not possess soft lips, and golden hair, and so do they really matter anymore?

After all, the captain's duty is with his men. So James will go down with the _Dauntless_, with his comrades who have fallen around him. It is he who has brought them to this fate; he who has taken them to the ends of the earth, and so he will go under with them. But even as he sinks, James feels the guilt of his actions building in the pit of his stomach and is grateful he will not have to abide by the shame much longer.

Even as he falls, he sees her face, and hopes she will be happy.

--

Miraculously he is saved. He does not know by whom, only that there are hands and arms, and they are pulling him in all directions, and his back hits the hard wood of a longboat. There is cool water forced to his mouth, and he splutters.

When he returns, he finds Port Royal is unchanged, but he has changed and it is too late for apologies or excuses, even if he were able to give them. His men are dead; the _Dauntless_ is at the bottom of the sea and it is his fault. James will bear the burden for all the families with lost sons, lost husbands, brothers and nephews: James will suffer with them and for them. He should have died too, and wishes he had.

--

Tortuga is full of rum, and he finds he likes it. Rum is the devil's drink, but James feels the devil within him, and fuels it with his bitterness. He is used to finer brew – wines, and brandies - the rum burns his stomach and his mouth, and makes him sick with it.

But it does not settle the fear or his dark thoughts that this is what he deserves, and he can anticipate no better. He can only hope that the end will come quickly, and goes about in search for it.

Not many people are willing to duel a man dressed in a once fine naval uniform, with the heavy burden of guilt in his eyes.

--

Tortuga is constant noise, and James does not sleep anymore. There are too many visions on the backs of his eyelids that haunt him, so he keeps his eyes firmly open and resolutely to the ground.

His once fine coat is in tatters, and he laughs at himself when he catches a glimpse of his reflection. The material is like flesh dripping from bones, rot and decay, and he is cursed but he doesn't care. His own mortality is almost a comfort in a way, for James knows that he will be judged for what he has done, and for those souls he has lost. He will suffer now, and for eternity, but perhaps that is not enough either.

Sometimes, in moments of extreme lucidity he thinks about Miss Swann - or _Mrs Turner_, as she surely would be by now. It does him no good to think of these things, but there is only rum and melancholy; and they are potent together.

--

James cannot believe his eyes when he sees Sparrow; the man who destroyed his life. The pirate flaunts his luck: wears it on his sleeve, and James hates him for it, for the hurricane, and how Jack saved Elizabeth where he did not.

He cocks his pistol and takes aim, not really sure if he will kill him, although he desperately wants to. There is bitterness and anger, and it curdles in his stomach, but the essence of the man he was is still there and that is why he hesitates.

His arm is seized and he wrestles for control; a shot is fired (his? – he's not sure). There are bodies everywhere, and he manages to unsheathe his sword amongst the chaos. He feels immortal, although he does not want to be. He fights poorly; nothing like he knows he can, hoping for an errant blade but his luck is not that good. Instead, he finishes his drink, savouring its heady flavour, letting it smother the pain a little more.

He is asking for it, and they all can see that he has a death wish, but no one wants to grant it. James tries to goad them to fight, brandishing his sword and his rum, but the next thing is a shatter of glass and his head hurts.

When he comes to, it is face down in muck. _How appropriate_, he thinks wryly, and nearly laughs. A former high and mighty Commodore down in the mud. It is almost ironic, but not quite.

Soft hands are on his aching shoulders, and he looks up, turning his head cautiously.

She is there, and he wonders if perhaps he is dead after all. Her name is a whisper on his breath.

"James Norrington, what has the world done to you?"

"Nothing I didn't deserve."

_Feedback is wonderful, and inspires me to write more. Love to know what you liked/didn't like/best lines, etc. Last two parts are longer. Thank you for reading._


	3. Chapter 3

**Part Three**

The fact that he ends up on Sparrow's _Black Pearl_ is the real irony, but it makes him feel better to have his feet on a deck, and sails over his head, even if they are black.

What doesn't make him feel better is _Captain_ Jack Sparrow himself, and the fact that James now must sail under his peculiar brand of command. He has fallen a long way from being the Scourge of Piracy in the Caribbean, to a mere deckhand, but what else would he do instead?

He tries to be as insubordinate as possible, an act of futile defiance, but finds it frustrating that his attempts are ignored, and he is left to stare across the water at the horizon. So he relents – he gets down on his hands and knees and swabs the deck. Elizabeth is his horizon anyway, and one he shall never reach.

--

Sparrow calls her Lizzie, and this shocks James; as if the pirate is talking about another person entirely, until he looks at her and realises perhaps he is. She has long lean legs, which he can appreciate (he has always imagined it so, even under those layers and layers of skirts she constantly wore), and he likes her hair unpinned. But she is still Elizabeth, whether she is Lizzie, or Miss Swann, (or even Mrs Turner, although she is not yet apparently and James is glad for that at least). Even if he wants to, he cannot hate her - she could send him into the depths of hell, amongst the fire and brimstone, and he still couldn't hate her.

Aboard the _Black Pearl_, Elizabeth sleeps below with the crew. She steadfastly refused the offer of Sparrow's cabin (which pleases James no end – he has seen quite enough of their innuendo and subtle mind games, thank you very much). Therefore James stays in the hammock beside her, a silent protector, guarding her from any harm. He doubts she appreciates the sentiment, but he does it for his own peace of mind more than anything. He would not forgive himself if something were to happen to her, even if she is not his responsibility anymore.

When Sparrow takes the Letters of Marque, James' interest is piqued. Jack does not seem to value them, but James does. They represent all he has lost, and all he could newly regain.

--

Elizabeth will be the death of him, with her charm and her smile. And he cannot help but smile back, even though he wishes he could let her know how she has hurt him, or the pain she has caused. It is not her fault that she loves another – it is more James' fault that he cannot let go. But his heart is held tight; the ropes around it are taut and strong, and his fingers are too large to untie the knots she has made.

He gets drunk under the stars on his rations of rum. It does not help him forget her; especially not when she sits and observes him from her position on the stairs. The moonlight is bright, and she is illuminated like an angel.

"Do you believe we will find a chest? A heart?" James asks, sitting beside her. Her body is heavy against his shoulder, and he thinks of a time when she held his arm on the decks of the _Dauntless_ and promised him the world. But the _Dauntless_ is now at the bottom of the ocean, and so are her promises.

"I don't know," she is truthful to him; more so than to Sparrow, who she simpers at during the daylight hours. The pirate has a touch of fortune about him that James envies; that irrepressible way of getting exactly what he wants, even at the expense of others.

"Do you believe Sparrow?" His question is simple, and double-edged. _Do you believe a pirate?_

"I have no choice but to." The tone is mournful.

James raises an eyebrow, and says nothing more.

--

Elizabeth throws him the compass the next morning. He has not had a chance to examine it until now - not since he has learnt the truth of what it really is. The last time he touched it was in Port Royal when he was a freshly promoted Commodore, and he passed it off as valueless and broken.

_A compass that doesn't point north._

It is a particularly fine compass really, he admits, studying it. It is not like others of crude workmanship that he has found aboard pirate vessels during his previous travels. It has a smooth surface, inlaid with gold paint, and fits snugly in his palm. It has been well cared for, kept safe, cherished.

But still, James eyes it warily. What he wants most perhaps, is not something tangible, but something deep inside that he cannot explain. He is full of contradictions and puzzles, just like buried treasure without a map, or a chest without a heart.

Slowly he opens it; waiting with bated breath for the answer of what he wants most; but knowing full well he will not be surprised by the outcome. He wants many things in life; things that he has lost and will probably never regain, but there is always one thing above all else.

The dial spins for a moment as if disorientated on its axis – surprised by a changed authority over it. After all, it has been under Elizabeth's jurisdiction for the journey thus far, and she is their heading towards the chest - wherever that may be. The sun sets every evening without the view of land, but James almost thinks maybe it is better to sail the seas with pirates, than to sink alone on solid ground.

The needle slows. Stops. Does not waver.

It points to her.

Of course it does, and James possibly is even a little relieved. He has spent so long wanting Elizabeth, that he does not know what it is like _not_ to want her.

"James?"

She is looking at him with brown eyes, wide like the day she kissed him in the rain and ran off, and he feels like he has been staring at her retreating back ever since.

He snaps the lid shut.

"Elizabeth?" There is no need to call her Miss Swann now. After all, the boundaries of propriety are decidedly gone.

She sidles up beside him, lithe like a cat, leaning against the railing.

"And what is it that you want most?" Elizabeth asks, her neck tilting back just so, and his throat feels suddenly tight. She should know, yet she still asks and James wonders if that is innocence, naivety or even blindness. A year feels like a long time for Elizabeth Swann, but it has been a lifetime for James.

Against all better judgement (which he has decidedly been lacking in lately), he opens the compass lid, and offers it to her. It pains him to do it, to rub salt in the wound, but he has suffered enough, and this time she can suffer with him.

"What I want, Elizabeth?" There is bitterness in his voice, a tone that he has adopted permanently now it seems. "It is nothing I can claim."

He forces the compass into her hand, daring her to look, and wishing he could force her out of his heart as easily.

--

James goes below decks, into the darkness, amongst the powder kegs, the rum barrels, and cannons. There is a niche against the wall, and he sits on the hard boards, knees apart.

He knows she has followed him; there are footsteps on the ladder and a soft thud when she reaches the bottom.

"James, I'm sorry."

She crawls up beside him, far too close, and they are side by side on the floor pressed together in the darkness. A year ago, he would have scorned such impropriety, but it is funny what time and circumstances will do. A year ago, she would have been wearing a cream gown with pearl buttons down the back, and he would have watched her out the corner of his eye.

Now instead, he stares shamelessly at her, gaze unfaltering, taking in all that is this new Elizabeth. Thirstily, he drinks up her loose unkempt hair, the frayed sash tied about her waist, the ill-fitting shirt and waistcoat that bravely attempt to hide what is underneath; the worn, patched breeches.

"What are you sorry for?" he inquires flatly. James has a sudden need to hear the words from her mouth.

She wrings her hands. His eyes are adjusting to the dim light, and he sees the short dirty nails on long fingers.

"For everything."

He raises an eyebrow, and lets out a snort of indignation. "That's a very broad apology, Miss Swann. Would you care to elaborate?" There is a fire in her eyes, and he is trying to draw it out.

"Don't be like that, James." She is keeping her temper for now.

"Be like what? Bitter? Angry? Humiliated?" James sneers, really warming to his subject, "After all, what right would I have to be any of those?" The words are laced with sarcasm, and they fall heavily between them. He feels like he has been rubbed raw, like the rope burns he used to get on his hands as a midshipman, but he feels this rawness everywhere. It crawls under his skin.

The hull of the _Pearl_ creaks, the only noise breaking their terse silence. Finally, Elizabeth speaks.

"There is a warrant out for both of us. Will too."

James is not surprised. "I figured as much." He desperately wants some rum, if only to settle the itch in his fingers.

"Don't you care?"

He turns to her, raising an eyebrow, motioning down to his battered coat stiff with salt and dirt. "I think I am past the point of caring, don't you Miss Swann?" The itch is getting stronger, and he feels her shoulder pressing gently against his own.

"On the contrary" she asserts, "I think you care a great deal."

"But caring won't change anything. You can care as much as you like, but you don't always get what you want." His words are sharp and he knows she feels his full meaning.

But Elizabeth is wise and says nothing, gaze intent on her hands, twisting the knotted bandage that is wrapped around her palm. James can see the edge of her scar there – the one from Isle de Muerta, and he fights the urge to press his lips to it.

"I'm sorry," she says again, and this time he accepts she means it. There is a tremor to her voice that he has not heard all these years, even after all the things they have both seen. "If there had been a way not to hurt you, James, I would - "

"It does not matter now." He silences her quickly. "I am…. resigned to my fate." He's not really, but just doesn't want her apologies or excuses. There is enough salt in his wounds without her tears to add to the sting.

She opens her mouth, perhaps to offer reassurance, but closes it again. There is nothing further to say. Neither the East India Company, nor the Royal Navy look kindly on his actions - nor piracy for that matter – and James has crossed so far over the line already that he may as well ignore it completely. He cannot hang twice, after all.

Their silence is companionable for a few minutes more.

"Jack says we are not far away."

"How does he know that, if he doesn't know where we are going?"

Elizabeth shrugs and smiles, a sweet expression tugging at the corner of her mouth. "He's a pirate."

James cannot help but roll his eyes. "He's an idiot."

"He's lucky!"

"Yes - lucky to be alive."

"He's a good man, James!" He loves how his name rolls off her tongue like it is the most natural thing in the world.

"He's the worst pirate I've ever heard of."

"But you have heard of him!" There is a tease in her voice, and he likes this sudden level of familiarity between them, the sliver of shared memory whispering between them.

"He's a drunkard." James replies flatly.

"Well…" she is momentarily lost for a retort, "- well, yes."

"A rum-soaked, smelly, wobbly-legged pirate."

She laughs, and it is a delightful sound. "If that is a pirate, then what does that make you, James?"

He shrugs, for there is no answer. He is stuck between two worlds, and has no place in either.

"You are a free man, James. Or as free as an outlaw can be." Elizabeth smiles softly, bemused at the contradiction.

He looks at her, knowing that she doesn't understand. Not really. This is not liberation; not to him.

"Freedom?" He gives her a wry smile before his mouth twists in bitterness. "Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose."

At this, she moves to him: her body pulls in closer to his, and her small hand finds his in the darkness. It is cool and soft, and her fingers curl around his instinctively, fitting perfectly. It reminds him of their dances in the Governor's ballroom; her joyous laughter and his two left feet. Her card was always full, but she would always save the last double without him having to ask.

Her fingers entwine with his own and his heart soars, and aches at the same time. James cannot help but linger on the swell of her bottom lip, the dark amber of her eyes. He is aware she is very near; he can feel the barest of breath lingering on his cheek, and it is warm, and sweet, and it takes all he has not to kiss her.

But she is not his, and he will not claim her. He is not a pirate.

"Oh, James," she murmurs sadly, giving him a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. Her hand reaches for his face; her fingertips are smooth against his rough skin, and he suppresses a shudder, but leans into them nevertheless.

"You are a fine man, James Norrington. Too fine for me."

She kisses his forehead. Her lips are warm and yielding, and he wants to tell her that it is not enough; that whatever she gives will never be enough. If he was a weak man, he would take and take and take, and give nothing back, just like Sparrow says, but he is too honourable for that despite everything. But he knows he will always dream dreams where he could possess her body and soul, and yet would forever wake up still wanting more.

James always will be left wanting more.

Elizabeth stiffens, sensing perhaps that she is on dangerous ground. Maybe there was a flash of desire in his eyes that he could not control, for he always very nearly loses control around her. He wants for her kiss him, like she did when she was nineteen and tasted of oranges. Right now she is looking at him as if she might, gaze intense and fierce, lips parted, breath shallow. It is a look of unspoken words, and mute acknowledgements. Conceding that perhaps things could have been different for them. Under other circumstances, they may have even been happy together.

But she doesn't kiss him, and he is surprised to find that he respects that.

When they go above decks later, the sun is bright, and the wind is strong. James stands at the prow of the ship, watching the water smash steadily against the dark boards of the hull. This cannot be his destiny; to sail under Jack Sparrow for the rest of his life. There is only one thing he wants almost as much as he wants Elizabeth, and it is sitting inside Sparrow's coat pocket.

The Letters of Marque are only papers really, ink and parchment, stamped and sealed. It is what they represent that is important, and what they promise that appeals to James most of all.

--

The island is long white sand, and a flooded sandbar. James follows diligently, a plan forming in his mind.

Elizabeth seems confused, and the wind is even stronger when they reach the dunes. He watches her pace, brow furrowed, and smirks at her stubbornness.

--

X marks the spot, except there is no X, only sand and James starts digging. If there is a heart in the chest, and Sparrow is telling the truth, that will makes things very interesting indeed.

His shovel hits something solid, and they are on their knees, hands scrapping at the sand, grit under their fingernails.

The chest is bigger than he expected, especially as it supposedly only contains something as small as a heart. But James knows better than most that only in physicality is a heart small, but that it can encompass so much more.

It is then that William Turner emerges, a black mark on James' horizon. Elizabeth runs to him; _clings_ to him, and kisses him, and James remembers now why he left Port Royal to chase Sparrow in the first place. He cannot look – must cast his eyes away as the lovers embrace; the ferocious and familiar gnaw of jealously eating at his belly.

James has known it all along, really, that he cannot have her, and never will. But it is only now that it hits him, like a sharp slap in the face, a sword to the gut.

He is resolved.

Turner has somehow conveniently procured the needed key from the _Dutchman_, and falls heavily to his knees, moving to unlock the chest, knife in hand.

A valuable commodity; a chest with a heart, James thinks. Combined with the Letters of Marque, a priceless tool of negotiation, indeed.

Sparrow and Turner draw their swords, and James follows. After all, he has nothing to lose and everything to gain.

--

James manages to pull himself to his feet, his head still spinning violently. He is disorientated until he spots the longboat. It is empty and drifting, looking surprisingly calm despite all the chaos around them.

He seizes his chance.

The Letters are smooth in his hands, and he cannot help but feel a surge of euphoria. Sparrow called it the dark side of ambition, but James can see only the light. How can it be darkness to want to return to the side of the good and the just? It is fine for some, satisfied to live as outlaws when all is lost. James prefers redemption - a swift return to what he knows and all that he believes in. Protect and honour, serve and obey. These are things he understands.

There is dirt at the bottom of the boat that wasn't there before, and James is no fool. Sparrow is busy, distracted by sea creatures, and it is exactly as James suspects.

The heart itself is small and sticky, surprisingly hot against his wet hands. It beats a slow rhythm, a faltering march rather than a rapid staccato. He stashes it inside his coat, next to his own heart, its sickly tempo out of time with his.

The creatures keep coming, their barnacled faces scowling, and arms swinging. They are uncouth fighters and James knows that he and Elizabeth, Turner and Sparrow are still outnumbered. If anyone is to escape, something must be done, and soon.

There is a fierce clash of swords, and they are almost backed up against the boat now. Turner is slumped over the side, and James is not sure how he missed that development but can guarantee it had something to do with Sparrow and the oar he is wielding.

"We're not getting out of here!" he hears Elizabeth yell beside him, and he turns to see the first genuine fear he has ever seen on her face. He cannot let her die here, not like this, on an island with the blacksmith and the pirate captain, slain by creatures even he cannot describe.

"Not with the chest!" James replies, because it is true and she knows it. "Into the boat!"

He will draw them off – it is the only chance.

"You're mad!" she shouts, realising what he intends to do. He almost wishes she would tell him to stop, not to do it, but Elizabeth knows as well as he does that this is their only chance. He may escape with his life, and with the heart, but on the other hand he may not. Either way, James has nothing left to lose by running, and nothing to gain by staying.

Their eyes meet, his green against her brown, and he wonders briefly, _oddly_, if their children would have had his eyes or hers. But that was a different life; one that James will never have.

"Don't wait for me," It is an order, rather than a request.

And then he turns, running, chest under one arm, and his sword in the other. James can almost feel her eyes burning into his back, and he wonders if this is how it will end.

All his life he knew he would die for Elizabeth Swann, the woman on whose rocks his life had been both anchored and shattered simultaneously. He can run from her, but he will never escape her.

--

He is a man with two hearts, but his emotions are bare.

The island is a forlorn place, especially at night. The sandbar floods with the steady tides, and the wind shifts the long grasses, but there is nothing other than that. It takes him a mere twelve hours to acquaint himself with its geography; mapping the landscape in his mind. He wonders if perhaps this is his Locker – his purgatory. He is not dead, but certainly does not feel alive under the starless sky, surrounded by miles of only sand and ocean. He may have the heart of the seas in his hands, but it is no use to him here, and in taking it he prays he has not condemned to the watery depths the only person he has ever truly loved.

The night is long and silent, and gives him ample time to think; to cast a timeline, or imagine the domino effect of what his actions have started. Would Sparrow by now have realised his betrayal? Or would he still be happy under false impressions, with that confident swagger in his step?

And what of Elizabeth?

_Elizabeth._

Lying on his back, under the trees, he spots a singular star in the sky, and wishes on it.

The next day, in the midday sun, he knows he cannot wait any longer. There is life and there is death, and for once he chooses to live.

He starts building a raft.

--

_Fourth and final part to be posted in a couple of days. Feedback is wonderful, and inspires me to write more. Love to know what you liked/didn't like/best lines, etc. Thank you for reading._


	4. Chapter 4

Beckett pronounces him an Admiral, but to James, the promotion feels hollow. The honour does not feel earned, only bartered for, but he is so grateful to be restored to his position and to his life - his _purpose_ - that he will not look a gift horse in the mouth.

At first the title feels too large for him, and the jacket fits poorly on his shoulders. After all, he was hardly a Commodore, and now he is an Admiral, when all along he would have settled for a privateer. But he ignores all of this, blocks it from his mind. Instead he attempts to find his stride; re-familiarise himself with the way of life that he used to know.

He will push Sparrow, and his _Pearl_, and most of all Elizabeth out of his mind now, for they have chosen a different path, one where he cannot follow.

--

James never used to dream before he set foot on the _Flying Dutchman_. Occasionally in his younger sailing days, he would wake with a start, not knowing the cause, but as he grew older even this gradually disappeared. Sleep for James was quite simply just that: sleep.

His previous absence of dreams make the ones that occur now even more vivid in his imagination; so stark that they feel almost genuine, until he awakes in a sweat and tangle of linen, limbs afire, and heart beating rapidly in his mouth.

They are not nightmares, which is more what James would have expected on a ship like the _Dutchman_. He could have understood that, what with the daily horrors he and his men witness at the hand of its cursed and bitter Captain. But instead they are the sweetest of dreams, so frighteningly real at times that James struggles in those hours to draw himself from sleep, and separate between what is imagined and what is his new reality.

They are not always the same dreams - but always, they are of Elizabeth.

Sometimes, he would see her sitting on a beach, the restless tide lapping softly at her bare feet. He would smell the sea; that strong salty sweetness, and taste the ocean air rich on his tongue. Sometimes she wore breeches, other times skirts, and she would turn and look at him, eyes alight, and he would melt like ice in the sun, slowly and steadily.

Other times, there would be children, one with brown eyes and one with green, a girl and a boy. They would be assembled on the dock beside their mother, watching the horizon; waiting for their father. Elizabeth would smile her most beautiful smile, and inside James always knew it was completely for him.

Other times, it would be in the privacy of their room, the moonlight lacing through the curtains, over entwining bodies. James would feel the curves of her under his fingers, the suppleness of her smooth, creamy skin. He would hear her gasp; her whispers and moans, and he would make love to her sweetly, tenderly, and his name would be a breathless sigh on her lips. There were times where his touch was rough, and his fingers bruised her thighs, and her nails scored his back, his arms, and it was almost a battle, a tireless struggle of dominance and willpower. Her teeth would nip against his mouth, and he would move harder, faster, and would elicit such sounds from her that he did not know possible. They would move together in urgency, in desperation, not settling until they were both sated and undone.

On those nights, he awakes trembling with need and desire, a frantic gnashing in his belly, a sickness in his heart. Those feelings are like the horizon: infinite and endless; dreams of something he can never hope to obtain, nor expect to possess.

His horizon had slipped through his fingers long ago.

--

Things are not right on the _Dutchman_, and he fears it. For the first time, he fears for himself.

For the longest time, he believed that his side was right: the navy was the side of the good and the virtuous. But while he was gone something shifted, and suddenly James feels like a stranger in his own uniform. The world has changed irrevocably; tilted on its axis, and he is doubtful of everything he once knew, and all he used to believe in.

There is what is lawful, and then there is what is right. James has learnt that lesson before. One day's head start, and a man condemned to hang had shown him that life and circumstances are not always black or white. There are always shades of grey; colours where there should not be, and that is where the contradiction lies. He knows this now, after hurricanes, and men like Sparrow. He knows this now, looking at the _Dutchman_, and his tarnished uniform. The brocade is new, but feeling of hopelessness is not.

But James will not question his orders, not this time. The balance is too delicate, and the wounds are too fresh for him to have doubts now. He cannot – and will not – fail again. What else is there for him otherwise? James knows nothing apart from the ocean, and how to follow orders. He knows nothing but ships, drills, tactics and protocol and is nothing without these things. Without this new order, he is nothing, and so he cannot allow the loss of it to happen again.

But still, even as he tries to ignore it, there is a nagging in his gut – taut and sharp – and it pulls at him, dragging him deeper into hesitation and grave misgivings. He knows that Beckett has placated him with what James thought he needed most; a return to what he knew, a life he understood. But it is only pretence. The reality is that it is now a game played under different rules than the ones James thought he knew, and a game with far higher consequences. He acts as the Admiral, with a stern brow and steady demeanour. But really James knows he is one in name only, and one that has been forced into submission, and obedience; one who is expected to remain blind to the horrors he sees.

James has regained duty, but not honour, and his stomach is sick with it.

So instead he will stay blind, although he loathes himself for doing it. Instead, he will remain with eyes closed and pray for better things, even though it kills him to do so. He thought he had chosen a side, but it seems the side he was looking for no longer exists. But he has no choice anymore and therefore he must sail on and close his heart to it. He will be as strong as iron, and hard as rock; he will not break; will not yield. Any emotion is weakness; he knows that now. If he opens himself to it, then that is when he will fall and he cannot let himself fall again.

Dante said, the ninth circle of hell is reserved for mutineers and betrayers. But glancing at his surroundings, James knows he is already there.

--

She is there, shouting his name, like it is the most natural thing in the world for her to be here with him, on the _Dutchman_ of all places. He offhandedly remembers how Elizabeth strangely always manages to show up in the most unlikely of places: a rum-runner's island, Tortuga, and now here. Somehow they always manage to intersect, him and her, their lives overlapping and circling, but never joining – not quite.

She breaks free from the officer restraining her, but draws up short of him, but not before he himself takes the final step and embraces her, crushing her small body to his own. She is tense in his arms, but that is irrelevant to him. James feels only relief that she is alive, and amazement that she is here. There are so many questions, but now is not the time to ask.

"Your father will be so relieved to know you are safe," he murmurs softly, wanting to touch her hair, soft about her face.

Her jaw sets and eyes blaze. "My father is dead."

He is confused. "T-that can't be true. He returned to England." It is what Beckett told him, and only now he sees the deathly flaw in this information.

Elizabeth reads his mind, or perhaps his sudden realisation is blatantly written on his face.

"Did Lord Beckett tell you that?" Her tone is bitter, and the words drop like stones; reinforcing that ever-present barrier that always seems to form between them. In the past it has been made of other things: propriety, duty, or William Turner. Now it is her loss of faith in him, and he finds that it hurts most of all.

There is confusion in his mind, but he draws himself out when he hears the word 'captain' and one of the other captured pirates of the _Empress_ is pointing to Elizabeth, with accusatory eyes. James ought to be stunned, but he has gone past that stage. All his shock has been taken up with her being there only inches in front of him, and alive. Besides, he doubts that Elizabeth Swann could do anything that would surprise him anymore. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the sinister skulking figure of Jones, and James has the sudden urge to get Elizabeth as far away from the sea captain as possible.

"Tow the ship. Put the prisoners in the brig. The captain shall have my quarters." The orders are perfunctory, natural off his tongue, and yet somehow leave a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

He feels Elizabeth regarding him from under her eyelashes, and he turns to her to obtain her agreement. He does not get it, but if he is honest, he never expected it either.

"Thank you sir, but I'd prefer to stay with my crew." She is too stubborn to be convinced otherwise, and James knows much of this is to spite him, or at least to punish him even more than he is already punishing himself. She turns to leave, but he finds himself reaching for her just as he has all his life. Usually she is always beyond his grasp, stepping into the arms of another man, or another life that doesn't include him. This time his fingers curl around her forearm, and he says the only thing he can think of to try and convince her.

"Elizabeth! I swear, I did not know." He is sincere, and he does not know how she cannot see it. Weatherby Swann was more a father figure to him than James would ever admit, or Elizabeth could ever realise. Although James does not show it, not yet, the news, this betrayal, pains him so very deeply. He tightens his grip on her arm, as if he can transmit his regret through their contact, or at the very least implore her to believe him.

But she does not, and her eyes are dark with anger. She cannot see beyond the Admiral's uniform, and suddenly James does not blame her.

"Know what?" she demands coldly, "- what side you have chosen?" She shakes off his arm in that haughty way of hers. "Well, now you do."

--

James has written many letters to Elizabeth over the years of their acquaintance. At first they were perfunctory notes enclosed with a book, expressing his sincere wishes that she would enjoy it.

Then they progressed to eloquent thank you notes for her generous hospitality over dinner or afternoon tea. They were always addressed to both her and her father, but he knew that she was the one who would claim ownership of them.

Sometimes there were letters he wrote from his duties at sea, detailing their progress and conquests. These were mostly addressed to her father, but he knew Elizabeth would read them eventually, and so he wrote them for her too.

Then there were the letters he wrote her from about the time she turned eighteen, and he knew he was in love with her. There must have been at least one hundred of them over those few years, if James thinks about it now. Page upon page of smudged ink, and scratched out lines, and all eventually crumpled into a ball and discarded. He could never say what he truly wanted to say, and knew that he would never have the courage to ever send one.

They varied from subtle compliments and soft expressions of ardour, to more passionate proclamations that made him blush just to remember. It was hard to write a letter to Elizabeth, for if he complimented her on her beauty she was sure to think it was all he appreciated about her (and while he did appreciate it, it was certainly not the only reason he loved her). If he was too soft in his confessions, she would more than likely discard them as feeble and ignore them completely; too violent and she would think him forward and depraved and he could not tolerate that. Any poetry and she would write him off completely; as he had heard the scorning laughter she had bestowed upon other suitors who attempted such.

_No_, it was impossible, though he spent many an hour puzzling over this dilemma, even when there were far more pressing matters at hand. His feelings for her were not to be taken lightly, and yet he could never find the suitable words for them. He was a man of the sea, not of the pen. Mostly his only experience in writing was letters addressed to the Admiralty, or in shipping reports and such.

And so it was that these letters were attempted, but never finished, or sent. Not one was taken out of his office for him to dwell over or consider for delivery. Even what he considered his best attempts were feeble, and felt shallow in comparison to the depth of what he truly felt. They were all cast aside with due haste, and with a sharp reminder that he should not dare to hope too greatly for Miss Swann.

Looking back, he sometimes wonders what could have happened if he had ever sent one of those letters to her, and how perhaps, it might have changed things. At any rate, she could hardly have been completely unaware of his feelings for her, certainly not as she got older and more conscious of her father's hopes. But would a letter have shown her, perhaps, the man he was behind the uniform? Sometimes he felt that he was merely the Captain, or the Commodore, and that she never really saw that he was still only James under it all.

Somehow he always felt that, although she must have known of his affections, she was oblivious of the intensity of his feelings for her. His love was not based on situation or class, or even her beauty. She would never have been, in his eyes, merely a wife. Perhaps these are the only things she felt he wanted from her, but in truth it was none of these things at all. James loved her for all her faults, for all her silly ideas and romantic notions. Even now, with all her reputation stripped bare - a girl on the run with pirates - he would marry her if she asked, if she loved him.

But she doesn't, so the letters do not matter.

No, it is dangerous to dwell on these things: these might-have-beens. For James' letters are nothing but ash and dust, eaten away by fire and the passing of time. From once being a fine couple standing over the ocean on the parapet, to what they have now become, their lives have turned out so very different than either of them could ever have predicted.

--

Elizabeth will be the death of him, but James has chosen his side once and for all.

She stares at him resolutely as he swings open the door of the brig, eyes narrowed and untrusting. She sees him as the enemy now, he knows - loyal only to Beckett and those which have killed her father. He is innocent of that, but not of other things.

"What are you doing?" she demands coldly, haughtily, tilting her chin up towards him in some sort of defiant gesture.

He stares at her in those dirty Chinese robes, and his heart aches. "Choosing a side," he answers, before tearing his gaze from her, and motioning the prisoners to follow him. They seem reluctant; faces wary in the murky light.

"Come with me. Quickly!" he hisses, and the pirates finally move. They sidle hastily past him, tense with mistrust, but too eager with the thought of escape to question him. She is less certain, but follows anyway, gliding under his vision with all the dignity and poise of a queen.

They are towing the _Empress_, and he knows that getting the pirates onto it is the only way he can guarantee her safety. After all, this is what it has come down to: his conscience, and her survival. The two are so intertwined that this is the only solution, and it is ironic that it satisfies both.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Elizabeth," he murmurs softly, his eyes still flickering occasionally to the shadows, making sure they are not spotted. Her hair is piled up atop her head, revealing her slim neck. She looks thinner, more strained, and tired – so very tired. She has come a long way from the Governor's daughter that he once knew, with rosy cheeks and full lips curved in a smile. The lips are still full, but her mouth is hardened, and face set in a frown.

"You must escape," he says in urgent tones, "but do not go to Shipwreck Cove. Beckett knows of the meeting of the Brethren. I fear there may be a traitor among them."

"It is too late to earn my forgiveness." Her eyes and words are still sharp, almost accusing. The crew is on the towline now, scrambling across with quick precision even with the motion of the ships. James feels suddenly cold.

"I had nothing to do with your father's death," he says seeking her gaze, a lump hard in his throat. He so desperately needs her to believe him this time. James does not want to let her leave without truly knowing this. "But that does not absolve me of my other sins."

No, it does not, but he will not rest without her acknowledgement or understanding nonetheless. He will be judged for his other deeds in time, just as he is being punished for them now too. His greed and blindness have condemned more than just himself and Elizabeth, and that is why at least he must ensure her safety: her freedom. It is the one thing he can still do.

Her eyes search his, studying him. After tense moments, she softens, obviously having realised in him what she was desperately looking for, registering the sincerity and honesty James is so desperate for her to see. It is her acknowledgement that he is no longer the Admiral that stands before her, only the James she has always known, despite time and mistakes, and fates that never quite met. Fleetingly, her eyes break from his and flicker downwards to his mouth and up again; it was so quick he thinks he must have imagined it.

"Come with us." The words are sudden and surprising even as he hears the thinly veiled desperation in her tone. Her eyes are amber, full of fire and life, and he feels like a statue carved out of stone in comparison.

"James, come with me!" she repeats urgently, and reaches for him, tugging him by the lapels of his jacket. It was never his intention to leave the _Dutchman_ when he started these wheels in motion, but his will has always been open to her manipulations, and so he nods, briefly, quickly.

All of a sudden, there is a raw angry shout from the darkness above them. James feels his calm façade splinter as violent fear grips his heart.

They have been discovered.

"Go! I will follow!" he hears himself saying. His hands are pushing her towards the line, but there are heavy steps coming nearer, and he knows there is not time for both of them to escape now. He hardens his eyes, and his resolve, in an attempt to try and make her believe what she so sorely wishes.

But it does not fool her. It is an empty promise, after all.

"You're lying!" she cries, with such indignation in her tone, and he wants to laugh - not from amusement, but fear.

One of the _Dutchman_'s crew is almost upon them, and James knows she must leave, now. It cannot all be for nothing, and he will not let it be. He will do this, though this is but one step on his new path to redemption. It is he that has placed her in this danger, and it is only he who can save her from it now. Beckett may do what he likes with him, and he will most likely swing, but at this moment James does not, and cannot care.

Elizabeth is so beautiful, glaring at him with such fury, and shock. But she knows, he can see it in her eyes that she realises what he has done. She realises the sacrifice he has made. And that he has done it all for her – for his love of her. She opens her mouth to speak, but he stops her. He knows he cannot bear to hear what she has to say.

"Our destinies have been entwined Elizabeth...but never joined."

And so without pretence, or hesitation, he moves forward and softly kisses her. It is the last reckless thing he will ever do, the only thing he will ever take from her, and the most precious thing of all. It is all he has ever wanted - for her to know and understand what he feels, how he loves her, and always has, most desperately.

As he pulls away, so very reluctantly, there are tears in her eyes, and he knows that she finally understands.

That is enough for him.

"Go! Now!" he murmurs to her, not wanting to take his eyes off her, but there is a shadow in the corner of his vision, and he cannot fall apart now.

He feels her hesitation, the fleeting touch of her hand on his arm, but unwillingly she turns and seizes the rope.

The shadow is closer.

"Back to your station, sailor." James' tone is firm even though his hands are starting to shake as he draws his sword.

There is a hoarse reply from the darkness in front of him, and footsteps. "No one leaves the ship."

"Stand down. That's an order." She is not far enough across, not safe yet.

There is more mumbling, and James steadies himself.

"Part of the crew, part of the ship!" the voice cries, and a panic seizes James' throat. Before he can react the sailor is bellowing. "All hands! Prisoner escape!"

"Belay that!" James cries, desperately, fumbling for his pistol, reacting in the only way he knows how.

Even in the sudden chaos, he can hear her screaming his name, and he turns. She is crawling desperately back on the rope towards him, and he wants to shout at her, but he knows her – she will not listen. She is too wilful, and too brave, but James cannot endanger her any more than he already has, and especially not for his sake.

To save her, he does the only thing he can do. He aims his pistol and fires. The rope falls and she falls with it. He will never see her again.

--

At first, the pain is immense; so sharp it steals his breath. He hears her scream his name; over and over, but it is distant to his ears, almost as if it was over hills and valleys, and time and, perhaps, it is.

He does not fear death; he is resigned to it, and has always been. There is life and there is death, and they are just two sides of the same coin, after all.

The air is cold, and there is a numbness spreading through his limbs. He slumps hard against the railing, but it does not hurt him. In fact, that first immediate pain has mutated into a lack of sensation altogether, but he can feel his heart still beating hard, and the blood still pumping. His vision is blurring, and he struggles against it – not quite willing to close his eyes to the world, not just yet.

"James Norrington, do you fear death?" It is a rasp against his ear, and he wants to shout at it, but he can't because there is not enough air in his lungs, or voice in his throat. Instead, he summons up what energy he can in his failing limbs, and raises his sword, the beautiful Turner sword. With his last gasp of strength, he moves - stabbing it as hard as he can, directly into the chest that possesses no heart – and he knows this action speaks volumes for what he can no longer say.

It is dark, so very dark, but he is not afraid. He thinks of Elizabeth, and that makes it all right; it quells the knowledge of the encroaching unknown for that little moment. She is familiar and safe, beautiful and so alive, and she will go on where he will not. His sacrifice will not be in vain, for more would miss her, than would ever miss James Norrington. Where he has been admired, she is loved, and that is more important than a thousand praises and military medals. He has laid his life down for hers, and there is no regret in his heart.

James can now be satisfied that she understands, and will always understand the extent to which he loved her; enough to put to rest his own happiness, his own dreams, and his own life. He can live for eternity within a kiss; a brief meeting of souls that would never join, and a heart that will never stop loving her, even though it has ceased to beat.

He always knew she would be the death of him, and so she has been: little by little, over the years, first his mind, then his heart, and now finally his body.

_...there is Elizabeth, small with freckles, precocious and bright at the prow of the Dauntless..._

_...ribbons fluttering in a sea breeze, curled up in the sand..._

_...spinning in a minuet, her hand lightly pressed against his own..._

_...watching him from the corner of her eye across the dinner table, a hint of an amused smile upon her lips..._

_...in the groves, eating an orange with great vigour, the juice running down her fingers..._

_...in her shift, wide-eyed and earnest, accepting his proposal..._

_...hair in a braid, picking him up from the muck in Tortuga, a look of concern and pity in her eyes..._

_...on the deck of the Pearl, resting against the rail, scanning the horizon..._

_...her lips, against his, on the Dutchman, soft and sweet, and mingled with tears..._

It is enough.

Elizabeth Swann was always going to be the death of him, but he had been nothing without her anyway.


End file.
